


Historical Wrack (The Help and Comfort Remix)

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Right," Ace said, her thought briefly resting on the can of Nitro-Nine she'd concealed in her petticoat just in case of emergencies. "Is this why we're telling everyone I'm your wife?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Historical Wrack (The Help and Comfort Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Historical Romp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/414933) by [lost_spook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/pseuds/lost_spook). 



As she ascended the grand staircase, leaning on the Doctor's arm and concentrating on each step to make sure she didn't trip over her dress, Ace caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. For a moment she couldn't place the serene young aristocrat; she blinked as the realisation came to her. 

The Doctor lightly touched her elbow. "Ready?" 

"For anything," Ace replied firmly. 

And then they were at the door, and the Doctor was handing a rectangle of card to the footman. 

"Lord and Lady Munchausen!" he proclaimed, as they passed through the great doors into the ballroom. 

Still taking care not to entangle her feet in her skirts, Ace sized up the room and its occupants. In the light of the chandeliers, aristocrats strolled to and fro with a casual self-confidence, occasionally deigning to cast a glance over the new arrivals. A small group of middle-aged women near the fireplace subjected them to a closer scrutiny, in some cases with the aid of lorgnettes. 

"I hope we pass muster with the..." she began, trying to affect an upper-class tone. She couldn't think of a suitably sophisticated word to describe the assembly, and settled for "... with them." 

"We certainly won't if you use that voice on them," the Doctor replied, in low tones. 

"I was only trying to fit in." 

He shook his head. "They'll spot you either way. But if you use your usual accent, they can't accuse you of a pointless pretence." 

"They won't have me kicked out for not being posh enough?" 

"Not unless you do something spectacular." 

"Right," Ace said, her thought briefly resting on the can of Nitro-Nine she'd concealed in her petticoat just in case of emergencies. "Is this why we're telling everyone I'm your wife?" 

"In this age, marriage grants a measure of protection." He came to a halt before a group of prosperous, bewigged gentlemen. "Sir Henry. Good evening." 

"Munchausen, isn't it?" Sir Henry took a step forward from the group. "And this must be your pretty wife." He took her hand and bowed. "Charmed to meet you." 

"Thanks," Ace said. "Oh, and my eyes are up here. Just in case you hadn't noticed." 

Sir Henry's face, already rubicund, flushed further. But his swelling indignation was punctured by the laughter of the gentlemen standing around him. 

"Got you there, old chap," one of the younger men said. 

"Ace," the Doctor whispered to her, as the group enjoyed Sir Henry's discomfiture. "A few manners wouldn't go amiss." 

"Thought you said you wanted me to talk like usual," Ace said sulkily. 

"We don't want to blow our cover. Or the building." 

"Spoilsport." Ace looked up as a stately middle-aged woman joined the party. "Who's this old— this lady?" 

Sir Henry's smooth introductions provided the answer: this was the Countess of Carisburgh, the chatelaine of this little gathering, and she had a favour to ask of the Doctor and Ace. 

"We have so few ladies this evening," she said, addressing the Doctor. "Could you be prevailed upon to spare us your wife for at least some of the dances?" 

"Given the circumstances, I can't see any harm," the Doctor said. "That's if my wife is agreeable, of course. What do you think, my dear?" 

_I'll give you 'agreeable'_ , Ace thought. Biting back the words, she came out with a surly "Don't see why not." 

"Splendid. Then I shall leave her in your capable hands." He released Ace, turned to go, and then turned back. "I shall, of course, claim the last dance with her myself." 

The Countess smiled. "Of course, my lord." She took Ace by her other elbow, reminding her uncomfortably of the all-too-many times teachers had dragged her to the head's office. "Perhaps you'll stand up with Lieutenant Towers for the first dance." 

As she spoke, the orchestra struck up. The Lieutenant, a foppish-looking man with prominent front teeth, held out a gloved hand to her. Ace suffered herself to be led out onto the floor, a tight knot forming in her stomach. 

_This'd just better work, Professor,_ she thought. 

⁂

She'd been lounging in her bedroom, listening to one of her mixtapes, when she'd happened to look up and seen the Doctor standing patiently at the door, with something in his hand that looked vaguely like a Walkman. Ace had turned the tape off, and looked up. 

"How are you at dancing, Ace?" he'd asked. 

Ace had given him a puzzled look. "I was red hot down the disco in Greenford. Only tricky bit was getting past the gorilla on the door. Why?" 

"We're going to pay a little visit to the eighteenth century. It may well involve our participation at a formal ball." 

"Doesn't sound like your scene, Professor." 

The Doctor had smiled reminiscently. "Ah, you should have seen me at the Shangri-La holiday camp in 1957." He'd danced a few steps of something that looked like a jig. "But, to return to the point: You've never had formal dancing lessons?" 

"Miss Wilberforce tried to get us to do a country dance once when I was at Perivale Primary. Total disaster. I ended up with a black eye." 

"Don't tell me, I should have seen the other fellow." The Doctor had stepped closer to Ace's bed. "The fact remains, that it would be helpful if you learned to dance. And since we don't have the time to take you through a course of lessons, I prrropose that we take a shortcut." 

He'd handed Ace the thing she'd thought was a Walkman. It was made of anodised black plastic and marked 'Sinc-Link' in an angular red typeface. At one end, it had an inch-wide slot, a couple of buttons, and a wire to which a pair of headphones were connected. 

"Don't have the patience either," Ace had said. She'd turned the gadget over in her hands. "What's this supposed to be?" 

"It's a sleep learning tool from the mid-twenty-first century. You just put the right tape in, slip the headphones on, and when you wake up you know how to do Lebesgue integration. Or Judo, as the case might be." 

"As long as you don't get the tapes mixed up." Ace had given the machine a more appreciative look. "Wish we'd had these in school." 

"Every technology has its drawbacks..." 

"Like what?" 

"... But fortunately, I don't think any of them would apply to our present situation." The Doctor had produced, as if from thin air, a small, black cartridge with a handwritten label, and held it out to her. 

"Couldn't have been worse than Miss Wilberforce droning on." Ace had taken the cartridge, popped it into the machine, and settled the headphones on her head. "Now what?" 

"Press the left-hand button." The Doctor had paused in the doorway. "By the way, we've got a few other points to go through before we get there." 

Ace had wanted to ask what the points had been. But she'd already pressed the button, and hadn't had the chance to say anything before she collapsed back onto her pillow, her ears filled with white noise and her mind filling with dance moves. 

⁂

After her fourth dance, Ace had taken the opportunity to slip into a side chamber for a rest and a glass of whatever they were serving here. It wasn't just a matter of physical exertion, though the dances had undoubtedly been tiring. The Doctor's tape had certainly given her all the necessary knowledge of dancing, but none of it was conscious; her arms and legs had made the right moves with no intervention from her brain. It had almost felt as if her limbs had been under the control of an external force, and she was no more than a puppet on a string. The sensation, bluntly, did her head in. 

There was only one other person in the room: a girl, of about her age, whom she'd briefly been introduced to after her first dance. She was reclining on a sofa, staring vacantly into space. One hand was pressed to her chest. 

"You all right?" Ace asked. 

"Oh!" The girl focused on her. "I'm sorry, I did not notice you, my lady." 

"Forget the 'my lady'. Just call me Ace." 

A hint of colour momentarily appeared in her pale cheeks. "If we are to be friends, you had better call me Julia." 

"Half a chance and I'd call you Dishcloth. You look washed out." 

"Sadly, I am afflicted with a weak constitution." Julia managed to sit up. "A single dance has quite exhausted me." 

"Do you need a doctor or anything?" 

"No, it will pass, I am sure." Her hand moved slightly, and closed on the delicate golden chain round her neck. "I must be a sad trial to you, Ace. I know I am to my family." 

Ace knelt by the sofa and took Julia's free hand in hers. "I hope it gets better for you." 

"Some days, I find it difficult to hope." 

"Yeah. I remember times I felt like that." 

In the uneasy silence that followed, Julia's hand stole once more to her necklace, and drew it out. A delicate circle of smoked glass hung from it; she held it before her face, and sighed. 

"What's that, then?" Ace asked. 

"A miniature of my poor mother. It gives me some comfort to see her dear face." 

Ace felt a cold prickling at the back of her neck. "Can I see it?" 

"If you like." Julia obediently divested herself of the necklace. "But please be careful." 

Ace took the miniature, and let her gaze rest on what had, until then, seemed to her to be a plain disc of glass. 

She'd been planning to give it back. To tell the Doctor what she'd seen, and discuss the best way to deal with it. But at the sight of the face that had looked back at her from the glass, she'd acted on pure instinct. Her hand had clenched into a fist, shattering the disc and driving its splinters into her palm. 

"Ace!" Julia screamed. She jumped to her feet, her face white with horror. "What have you... You have destroyed it!" 

"I had to," Ace said dully. 

"It was all I had to remember my mother by. My _mother_! I will nevermore see her beloved face. You jealous, wicked..." Tears were running freely down her face now, and she broke off with a sob. "I shall never speak to you again!" 

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her. 

"I had to," Ace repeated. It didn't make her feel any less sick or empty. 

How long she remained there, kneeling beside the empty sofa with a hand full of shattered glass, she wasn't sure. She only regained a sense of time at the hand on her shoulder, and the Doctor's quiet "Ace." 

"Professor." She looked over her shoulder at him. "That tape." 

"The tape?" he asked, seemingly puzzled. 

"Was it just dancing? You didn't stick anything else on there, did you?" 

"Dancing, and nothing else." 

"No, that'd be too easy, wouldn't it? Then it wouldn't be my fault." Ace shook her head. "It was me who broke her heart, not any stupid tape." 

He crouched down beside her. "Would you like to tell me about it?" 

"Don't you know already? You always do." She gave him an unfriendly look. "That's not the point, is it? You want me to talk about it so you can sort me out." 

The Doctor took her injured hand. "I'd say you were so sharp you've already cut yourself." 

"Very funny." As the Doctor carefully teased the splinters out of her palm, Ace gave him an account of her conversation with Julia, and how she'd come to have the precious miniature in her hand. 

"When I looked at it," she said. "I didn't see her mum. I saw mine. And I realised..." 

"You realised it was something more than a simple picture. Something that didn't belong." The Doctor held one of the bloodied shards up to the light; within the glass, the hazy outlines of circuitry could be seen. "A device that was preying on her." 

"That's what I thought." Ace's voice was shaking. "So I broke it. And that broke Julia." 

"I can guess." He'd carefully peeled the shredded glove back from her lacerated hand and was rubbing some sort of gel onto the injury: something that stung and then left a numb sensation. "You probably saved her life." 

"Yeah." Ace looked down at her hand. The bleeding had stopped, and a flesh-coloured membrane concealed the cuts from casual glances. "Don't think she'll thank me for it." 

"Do you want to go back to the TARDIS?" 

Still looking at her hand, Ace rose to her feet. "No," she said. "We haven't finished here, have we?" 

"Have we?" he repeated. 

"If there was one of those things, maybe there's more. Right?" 

"It's possible." 

"Then we need to look for them." She watched him patiently gather the fragments of glass together, and wrap them in paper. "And you still owe me a dance, Professor." 

He rose to his feet, looking puzzled. "You want to dance with me?" 

"We're supposed to be married, aren't we? Don't I even get a dance with my husband?" 

"True." He tucked the fragments of glass away somewhere about his person. "But I didn't expect you to be such a stickler for conjugal rights." 

Ace took his arm. "You've had me dancing to your tune all evening, Professor," she said. "It's your turn now. That's what being married's about, isn't it?"


End file.
